


Wintersweet

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: Bullets [19]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valoris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: After having met again, Boris and Valery talk about the life that awaits them and make plans.
Relationships: Valery Legasov/Boris Shcherbina
Series: Bullets [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1372144
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	Wintersweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obadiah_the_orc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obadiah_the_orc/gifts), [Hinkle](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Hinkle).



> This story is the sequel of [ Winter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636919/chapters/52251319) and [ Sentiment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636919/chapters/52328971), so it won't make a lick of sense without reading the previous stories.

Boris keeps his word: that same afternoon he momentarily leaves Valery's house to return to the small guest-house in Timonovo and pack his bags.

As soon as the door closes behind Boris, a strange melancholy takes hold of Valery.

He waited for that moment so long that a part of him had begun to lose hope of being found, so that now that he has met Boris, it almost doesn't seem real to him.

Perhaps in a moment he will open his eyes, discovering that he has fallen asleep on the bench by the lake and that he has dreamed of everything.

He looks out the window, at the figure wrapped in the dark coat that walks away, swallowed up by the fog, the same fog that brought Boris to him.

The memories in his mind are still many, but they are retracting slowly, like the low tide, to return to the universes to which they belong, and probably in a few days they will disappear completely, leaving only light imprints in their memory, like the parietal art of ancient tribes now faded.

If, on the one hand, it saddens him to forget the fragments of other lives, on the other Valery knows that it’s right, because there must be room for their lives in this reality: he doesn’t want to live a second-hand life.

Boris is methodical but quick in folding his clothes: he doesn't want to waste time now that he has found Valery again.

He remembers all too well one life where he hesitated, didn’t have enough courage and lost him, and for Boris it is one life too many. The memory of that pain is fading, but a subtle unpleasant sensation still remains, like the smoke of a cigarette that fades into the air, but whose acrid smell remains.

As he pays for pay for the stay at the hotel and walks quickly toward the poet's house, in his head he has already revolutionized his life to accommodate and make room for Valery, with the usual pragmatism that has accompanied him in many existences.

Maybe he will miss a bit traveling far and wide across the country, but the craving that pushed him to travel has run out.

Now he can rest.

If he travels again, it will only be to show Valery the incredible places he has seen. And this time, when he sits on the train, he won't envy the other travelers who have houses to return to and lovers to embrace, because he won't be alone.

Stealthily, without being noticed by anyone, he will take Valery's hand and hold it tight throughout the journey; Valery will startle, surprised, but will intertwine their fingers, and will hide a smug smile behind the scarf.

When Boris knocks on his door again, Valery can’t completely hide the relief he feels, but, well, he has never been good at pretending or lying, in any life.

It really seems that there are some constants in any universe.

"What is it, did you think I wasn't coming back?" Boris asks. His dark coat smells of rain due to the humidity of the thick fog.

"No, but you know what it’s said about things that seem too good to be true..."

"It's all true," Boris puts the suitcase on the floor to take Valery’s face in his hands and kiss him on the lips, resolute and insistent, "just as it’s true the promise I made before, not to let you leave the house for two days."

Valery smiles and hugs him, resting his head on Boris’ shoulder, as he has done countless times in countless lives, because that is his place of choice. He realizes that he missed being enveloped in Boris' warm and reassuring embrace, just as he missed their laughter.

As a poet, Valery has often given interviews and public speaking, but his soul has remained shy, not accustomed to noisy companies. Instead, he always finds his ideal dimension with Boris and, when the circumstances of their lives allow it, he loves to laugh with him.

Boris responds to his hug in an almost rough way, and Valery feels him vibrate with impatience under the clothes, so he takes him by the hand and drags him towards the bedroom.

Boris undoes the knot of the belt of Valery’s bathrobe, making it fall to the floor, and raises his lips in a confident and incredibly sexy smile.

"You don't need to seduce me at this point."

But Boris continues to smile, fully aware of the effect it has on him.

"Maybe I like doing it,"

"Undress," Valery whispers, lying down on the bed, and enjoying the show of Boris taking off his clothes for him.

Valery is sleeping soundly when Boris gets up.

Finally he has the opportunity to take a look at his house. In his other lives, Valery always lives in a modest, almost shabby apartment, while here he is clearly wealthy: the State allows some convenience to a poet who has won prestigious international awards.

The house is quite large: in addition to the living room, where two armchairs are positioned in front of the fireplace, and to the bedroom, large enough for two people, there is the study where Valery composes his poems, full of books, with a large desk in front of the window, and also another guest room with quite neutral furniture, which could be used by anyone.

It’s really as if Valery had waited for someone all his life, carving out a space in his house home and in his heart.

"Borja?"

Valery's sleepy voice calls him back.

"Coming."

Before returning to the bedroom, Boris passes by the study and takes a poetry book.

Valery is sitting on the bed, and Boris lies down with his head resting on his thighs, holding out the book.

"Read me something."

Valery bites his lips and hesitates for a moment.

"Come on," Boris reaches out and brushes his ankle, "you've read in public many times."

“This is different, reading for you. What do you want me to read?"

Boris might ask him for his favourite poem, but it would be too easy, and there are other things he wants to know about him.

"What do you read when you feel sad?"

The question surprises Valery, but the poet diligently flips through his book until he finds what he is looking for.

The first one is a poem about a seed hidden under the snow that awaits spring, enduring the cold, silence, solitude, strong in its hope.

Then he goes on and read the poem of a sailor navigating an endless ocean, challenging the fearful waves and the weather, only to go home.

"What do you think?" He asks finally, as he closes the book.

"They are melancholy, but there is also hope in your words."

“I've been told often over the years. In part it’s because this is my style, but it’s also because I felt this way when I wrote them. Not always, of course,” Valery doesn't want Boris to think his life has been miserable, because it's not like that. "I also wrote very happy compositions, but when I feel down, reading these poems help me."

"You and I are in those lines," Boris says, narrowing his eyes.

Valery caresses his hair.

“Yes, even if I didn't know when I wrote them. I had these feelings inside me and I absolutely had to take them out and put them on paper, to better understand them myself. And, perhaps, to send a message."

“I'm afraid I'm not a big fan of literature: I didn't know your poems and I didn't know you before I saw you on that bench. With my job, I had little time to cultivate a hobby."

"You don't have to justify yourself," Valery says, stroking his face, "inside myself, I knew it was like a message in a bottle thrown into the sea, I was aware that it could get lost. But I never lost hope of finding you, one way or another."

“This is what I did while traveling around the country. I knew that the chances of meeting my soulmate while building a railway line were few, but I continued to travel, driven by the desire to find you."

“Instead I have always traveled very little, I was also unwillingly going to ceremonies to collect the awards. I didn't like it, I got anxious every time I left home, I think because of the promise I had made, that of not moving. The odds weren't in our favor, were they?" Valery shakes his head, catching the irony of their juxtaposed lives, but Boris smiles: "We found each other in spite of everything, and it's the only thing I care about." A woodpecker, outside the window, taps with its beak on the trunk of a tree, breaking the quiet, "And it's nice to have found you here."

"Do you want to know how I discovered this place?"

"Sure."

"One day, in Moscow, I went to visit an art exhibition. There were mainly rural and mountain landscapes, beautiful and well made, but nothing really special that caught the eye. But then I entered a dimly lit, almost hidden exhibition hall, where there was only one painting: it represented lake Senezhskoye and that same bench where you found me, and... do you know what Stendhal syndrome is?"

Boris slowly shakes his head.

"It’s a visceral reaction of mind and body to a work of art, which strikes you to the point of causing vertigo. I felt that way while looking at that painting, and I had to sit on a bench because I was about to pass out."

"Was it so beautiful?"

"It wasn't just a question of beauty, that picture was evocative, it gave me the feeling that this was a place out of the world, a magical, special place, where anything could happen, and while I waited for the vertigo to subside, I thought _'I have to go there, that's where it’ll happen, where I'll meet what I'm waiting for'_."

"I'm here now, and I'm here to stay." Boris sits up, kisses him between the eyes, then gets up.

Valery moves to follow him, but Boris stops him.

"No, wait here."

"Boris," Valery laughs, "we can't seriously spend two days in bed."

"Is anyone preventing us to do that?"

"No, but…"

Boris silences him with a kiss, and Valery already knows that he will always win, every time he rests his lips on his.

"Don’t compete with me on who is the most stubborn," Boris warns, "You have no hope of winning."

Valery snorts a chuckle and lies down again.

Shortly thereafter, however, the air fills with the scent of sautéed vegetables and spices, and Valery's stomach growls with hunger. Curious, he gets up, retrieves the bathrobe from the floor and goes to the kitchen, where Boris has three pans on the stove.

"If you get up, I can't bring you dinner in bed."

"It doesn't matter, I prefer to look at you."

It's fascinating to watch Boris do something. Given his imposing bulk, one would expect him to be like an elephant in a glass shop, in the confined space of the kitchen. Instead he moves nimbly between the stove and the counter, mixing the food skillfully; he opens the doors of the cabinets as if he already knew where Valery keeps the ingredients, and behaves as if he had always lived there.

Valery sits at the table and watches Boris's shoulders and muscular back move under his shirt, listens to him as he mumbles something after tasting the sauce and corrects it, and enjoys the scent of food.

"I don't know what you're making, but it's certainly better than what I usually cook," he smiles, "you'll end up spoiling me."

"I have nothing against it."

Boris sets the table and then puts in front of him a bowl of delicious beef stew, cooked according to the classic Georgian recipe, which he learned when he lived in Kutaisi.

He thought he could dig into his memory and offer Valery one of his favourite dishes from a past life, but then he chose to show him some of himself from this life.

It’s a spot on choice, because Valery likes the stew very much: he eats with gusto, and in the end he even cleans the bowl with a piece of bread.

Boris looks at Valery with his head resting on one hand: he likes to take care of him in many ways, including cooking for him, and he likes to see him happy.

There was a life where Valery stopped smiling and never did again until he died, perhaps the universe zero, the one that kicked off everything, so now not only does Boris always want to see him smile, he wants be the reason for his happiness.

"I think I'll let you spoil me," Valery says, wiping his mouth on the napkin.

"Good."

Boris takes his hand and kisses the back of it.

After dinner they sit in front of the fireplace, and Boris tells him anecdotes about some of the places he visited.

“I went to Mongolia once. I was in Novoselenginsk for the completion of the railway, so I had the opportunity to visit it."

Valery's eyes widen: “Mongolia? It’s so far away that I can hardly imagine it. Tell me, how it is?"

Boris closes his eyes and stretches his feet towards the fire: “The Mongols are a proud people, they’ve an ancient and fascinating culture; their markets, even in the smallest villages, are colorful, vibrant of life and full of incredible perfumes.

Their land is breathtaking, but harsh and cold, after all you must not forget that it’s just below Siberia: the landscapes are wild, immense prairies and grassy hills; summer is very short, but enchanting, and the meadows are filled with flowers.

One night, before returning to Russia, I slept in one of their tents; at one point I woke up and went outside: there was a strange glow and I was surprised, because we were far from the city, and the moon hadn’t yet risen, then I realized it was the light of the stars."

"Really?"

“Yes, it was an incredible sight, you have no idea how many stars there are in the sky, until you’re far from the city lights. And as I watched that beautiful view, I told myself that one day I would share it with the person I loved." Boris extends his hand towards him, "Would you go there with me?"

"Of course," Valery replies, squeezing it, "Even right away."

It’s not difficult to imagine the long journey by train, the landscape that changes slowly, Boris telling him where they are, a few books to spend time during the day, and the nights in the bunk of the sleeping car.

"No," he laughs, "it's close to Siberia, remember? In winter it’s too cold to sleep in a tent. But this summer we can go, if you have no commitments."

Valery strokes the back of his hand with his thumb: “My priorities will undergo a heavy reorganization soon. Shall we go back to bed?" He asks after a short pause, "Someone has a promise to keep."

During the night, while the two lovers sleep in each other arms, the fog surrounding the lake rises, to leave room for the snow, which arrives silent, but abundant, transforming the landscape again.

In the morning a thick, white blanket covers everything, making the atmosphere even more fairytale and unreal, if possible.

Since it’s still snowing, from the nearby village no one ventures to the lake, and Valery's house is even more isolated from the world.

Boris thinks that it’s a really nice place to return to, at the end of a journey, it’s home, even for a wandering soul like his.

"Are we going for a walk?" Valery asks after breakfast.

"Willingly."

To tell the truth, the romance of walking together under the snow is somewhat dampened by Valery who slips and almost falls on the steps, but he just has to cling to Boris' strong arm to feel more secure. The absence of strangers allows it.

Feeling particularly bold, he even kisses away a snowflake that has landed on Boris' cheek, then rests his head on his shoulder.

The only noises you can hear are the soft snow that crunches under their feet and some robins that chirps, flying above them; their deep footprints in the snow are the only element that disturbs the otherwise immaculate landscape.

The world seems almost black and white, with the snow bringing out the dark trunks of the bare trees, but then a yellow spot attracts Valery's attention.

"What's that?"

They get closer, and Boris smiles in front of a small shrub: "It's wintersweet."

"Flowers? In this season?"

"Yeah, it's one of the few plants that bloom in winter."

Boris detaches a twig and carefully places it in a pocket of his coat: he will make it dry and keep it among the pages of a Valery’s book.

Then, as he caress the flowers, shaking them from the snow, he smiles.

"What is it?" Valery asks.

"I was thinking that there are many more lives in which we meet when we’re old, rather than when we’re young."

Valery frowns slightly: “Oh, you're right. It's curious."

“As much as I like to meet you when you're in your prime, I don't mind that it’s like this. Do you know why?"

Valery shakes his head, but looks at him curiously.

"You would never say that old age is made for love, right? If it hasn't come before, why should it com now? Old age is the time to look back and do an analysis, not to have the most beautiful experience of your life. You simply don't hope for it anymore, so if love comes, it's even more beautiful."

He takes Valery’s chin between his fingers and kisses him, caressing his tongue with his, and Valery closes his eyes, delighted.

"Hm, you're right," he murmurs.

"It’s easy to fall in love when you are young, there are passion, unbridled sex, madness, but now we’re wiser, and we’ve something deeper and stronger, as you said yourself: the sentiment."

"Yes, we have."

"Love at our age is like the wintersweet, which blooms in winter, when nobody expects it."

"Wow, where does this poetic soul come from?" Valery asks, stroking the back of Boris’ neck.

"Being the partner of a poet, I have to live up to it."

“You are Boris, you always are. And," he stands on tiptoe to confess a secret in his ear, "you're still doing well, talking about unbridled sex."

Boris looks at Valery's cheeks, red from the cold, at his blue eyes shining with joy, and kisses his cool and dry forehead.

"You’re not bad either, to the point that you make me want to go home."

Valery turns one last time to look at the bush in bloom; he thinks that his next book will be titled _Wintersweet_ , and perhaps his poems will be less melancholic, perhaps they will have an exotic touch, after Boris has shown him distant places, and love will shine through every word.

However, he won't start writing it soom, because he wants to enjoy the rediscovered presence of his soulmate, so now they will go home, Boris will make tea, or even hot chocolate, if he is in the mood to spoil Valery a little, and then he will probably begin to organize to move with him, while Valery will make room in the closet for Boris’ clothes.

And everything will be fine.


End file.
